


intercourse

by Ealasaid



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassins, Fanfic of Fanfic, Introspection, M/M, PWP, Terrorists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in·ter·course: (n) connection or dealings between persons or groups; (n) exchange especially of thoughts or feelings; (n) physical sexual contact between individuals</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luchia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/gifts).



> A thing I wrote in the midst of SR&R and XMFC bullshit, because Luchia has the most awe-inspiring talent when it comes to writing epic fanfic. Directly inspired by (and set in the world of) her assassins/extrimest terrorist AU and from Enjorlas's POV.

Enjolras cannot _possibly_ put into words precisely just what Grantaire _is_.

Oh, he can try—he can explain how Grantaire’s ideas are never good and unpredictable and always initiated at the worst of all possible times, he can describe the way the man makes a brush move on a canvas even when he’s fifteen drinks in and more incoherent than usual and how the piece comes out breathtakingly expressive and alive in ways other art can’t compare to, and Enjolras can even _try_ to clarify how Grantaire’s sarcastic commentary about ABC provokes both anger and the type of intellectual introspection and reflection in a way that only serves to refine Enjolras’s goals and spurs him to do better and how _utterly frustrating_ it is that someone so vocally disbelieving can actually do more for the cause than its most loyal adherents, but that doesn’t really work either.

(“Oh god,” Grantaire manages out as Enjolras pins his hips down and bats his hands away. “Oh, Christ.”)

Sometimes Enjolras wishes he could perfectly capture small video clips of the way Grantaire does things, because it’s a little easier to see the perfect ludicrousness he is when he moves. Like how effortless it is for Grantaire to drop his smudging charcoal and pick up a knife when he’s following Enjolras on a job; there’s a grace and dexterity to his hands whether he’s creating or killing that Enjolras thinks God Himself would weep to witness. But video clips that personal are dangerous to have around, and unavoidable security footage is bad enough.

(“Is this what you want?” Enjolras asks, ragged. “Is this all right?”

Grantaire whines, hands twisting at the sheets. “Is this _all right_ …” His voice cracks on the last syllable. “ _Jesus._ ”)

And there are the times when Enjolras watches the way Grantaire falls to pieces under his hands and lips and teeth when Enjolras can’t believe he gets to do this sort of thing, when he remembers getting hauled into a room being tossed around by a guy because that was the easiest way to deal with his target at the time and this strikingly handsome fellow covered in paint smears and smelling like paint thinner and alcohol slit the guy’s throat and studied Enjolras like Enjolras was the second coming of Christ. And Enjolras had momentarily stopped thinking, flatlined at _what the fuck_ over the weirdness factor, before the murderous artist’s keeper came into the room and shattered the moment.

Enjolras wasn’t sure why the artist-slash-killer decided to come with him and he didn’t think to worry about it until he realized he was getting unreasonably attached. The artist, Grantaire—a confusing mix of cynicism, dedication, and a ruthless inability to care about seemingly _anything_ besides Enjolras—was terrifying. He followed Enjolras wherever he went and he liked it. Worse, Enjolras liked it. It was dangerous.

(Grantaire wasn’t fantastic at blowjobs, but god knows he was enthusiastic about it. Enjolras wasn’t so sure he was that much better, that Grantaire’s reactions weren’t just because he was touch-starved or whatever when it came to Enjolras, but Grantaire hadn’t complained yet. The leisurely pace Enjolras set at present had Grantaire fretting, alternately fisting his hands in Enjolras’s hair and forcing himself to let go, shaking in Enjolras’s grip.

“Stop thinking so much,” Enjolras tells him. “I’m not going to cry if you pull too hard.”

Grantiare chokes on a startled laugh as Enjolras goes back down with a will.)

But then Tripoli happened. Tripoli was a mistake; Enjolras couldn’t decide for a long time whether he should have stayed away like he had planned when he left Grantaire feverishly painting him in the hotel room or if Enjolras never should have left at all. He’d had to wrestle with himself once he’d realized he didn’t want to leave Grantaire, and then it had been completely horrifying and strangely appealing to see what it had done to the man. At least Enjolras knew the strange loyalty wasn’t a deception after that.

(“Enjolras,” Grantaire is rasping, “Enjolras Enjolras Enjolras—”)

It was easiest to deny, for a long time, the desire Enjolras felt; the liking spiraling into lust, into possession, and then to actual fondness. It was terrifying, the way Enjolras could turn his head and see Grantaire doing… whatever he was doing, and falter in his step, momentarily forgetting everything. _Everything_. The work of a lifetime could be undone in the barest of seconds. But Grantaire proved far too useful to be let go. He went where Enjolras went and did what Enjolras wanted him to do, and in the beginning that more than made up for the mouth on him. He drank but was persuaded to be sober for jobs; he dawdled but was swift when the situation called for it. And even if he was constantly butting heads with Enjolras and calling out his bullshit and trivializing ABC’s work, he never turned and walked away. Enjolras knew that Grantaire’s strange obsession was probably to blame for that, but it was still comforting.

(He’s pulling at Enjolras’s hair, words nearly incoherent. From what Enjolras can make out and the way Grantaire’s body is pulled up tight, tighter than any string, he’s going to come. Enjolras ignores the sweet burn and bobs down until his nose is pressed to Grantaire’s belly and Grantaire purrs out a broken stream of linguistic filth and suddenly relaxes, boneless.)

And then Enjolras thought that maybe, maybe someone who didn’t demand time his time away from ABC wouldn’t be a bad thing. Because Grantaire would never ask, that wasn’t his way. Grantaire, who could hardly articulate what he wanted of Enjolras besides Enjolras; Grantaire, who’d take it whatever way Enjolras would give him, even if it broke him in the process. If anything, Enjolras would have to be particularly careful _not_ to wreck Grantaire, if only because Grantaire would never vocalize a warning when Enjolras crossed the line.

(“Christ,” Enjolras whispers in awe, lips to the skin of Grantaire’s hip, “you are so beautiful.”)

But if Enjolras was perfectly honest—there was absolutely nothing more satisfying than making a man who genuinely did not give a single fuck care about _something_.


	2. Cairo, Egypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is more from joking with Luchia than anything and has nothing to do with the previous chapter, except it's still Enjolras's POV. It is also probably like a year before Gnomon starts I guess??

The day was hot; this close to the Nile, it was muggy, too. Enjolras scowled at the floor, the blood already forming tacky gobs in the oppressive humidity. The Egyptian guy was choking on the bullet holes in his throat—Enjolras hadn’t taken into account his much shorter stature when he’d aimed—and scrabbling at the chipped tiled floor of the apartment, making noisy burbling gasps that were really rather disturbing. This wasn’t an ABC-related assassination, which meant it left more of a bitter taste in his mouth afterwards.

Distantly, Grantaire shouted in surprise, jerking Enjolras’s attention elsewhere. Enjolras turned and darted down the short hall as he heard splashing—shit, was there someone in the bathroom? Did they drag Grantaire into the tub or something? Next time he would make _sure_ the artist stayed back at the hotel—

He banged into the door to the master bedroom, cluttered with musty furniture in dark wood. Light came in from the unwashed glass window in the wall facing the Nile. More splashing, and he turned and smacked right into Grantaire, who was skipping backwards a few steps.

“Shit, sorry,” Grantaire said, automatically steadying him by hooking some fingers into the front of Enjolras’s shirt while Enjolras did something along the same lines using Grantaire's shirt collar. And then, belatedly, “I cleared all the rooms, there’s no one left.”

“I noticed,” Enjolras said, scowling some more and eyeing Grantaire’s general state of disarray—no different from what it was this morning, which ruled out anything other than Grantaire getting startled. “What were you shouting about?”

“The crocodile,” Grantaire says, waving at the opened bathroom door behind him.

There was a beat where Enjolras literally couldn’t come up with a reaction for that. He settled for poking his head around the door and yep, that was a crocodile. It was a bitty one, only maybe three feet long or so, but it was heaving itself out of the tub to sprawl on the bathroom floor with a splat and hissed menacingly once it righted itself.

“Who the fuck keeps a pet crocodile?” Enjolras asked in general, completely bemused. The crocodile hissed again and advanced with as much of a promise of violence as it could muster.

“I dunno,” Grantaire said, sounding preoccupied. Enjolras became aware of the small _shffing_ noises emanating from the general direction and turned to glare at him—this was _no time_ to be sketching.

“Really?” he demanded, and looked at the scribbled rendition of Enjolras being stupefied. Grantaire was already halfway through a rough graphite smudge of lines that suggested a ridiculously aggressive baby crocodile, and even as Enjolras watched a few more swipes gave the whole an air of determined waddling. “Where do you even hide these things? Do you just come along prepared to sketch what’s left?”

“Call me organized,” Grantaire said, and smiled this little secret thing, like Enjolras had reminded him of some private joke.

Enjolras was about to say something, a reprimand for being too light about this—and they still needed to get out, despite the surprising sturdiness of the building and the way no one had yet set up an alarm—for christ’s sake, they were on the fucking thirteenth floor and they’d have to move quickly to get out of the building in good time—when there was another hiss and Enjolras felt little needle teeth scratching at his ankle through his jeans as the crocodile snapped at him. He spun and slammed the door shut on the thing, which only served to smack it into the doorjamb.

“What, did it bite you?” Grantaire asked, amused, even as Enjolras grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him out of the room in the direction of the still-open door.

“Shut up,” Enjolras said, frogmarching him to the stairwell. “We have thirteen flights to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this class so much I do not want to be in a makeup class as well aughhhhh


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...someone wanted vanilla sex... characterizations still attributed to Luchia!

The world was the quiet shhhing of rain dripping from the eaves of the building and the fine of the sheets under Grantaire’s cheek. The warmth of being under the sheets and pressed up against another body contrasted with the chill of the room—Grantaire bet that someone had opened the window earlier and forgotten about it. He wondered if that meant the windowsill would be wet.

Enjolras—the body—sighed and squirmed briefly before settling again. Grantaire realized he was something other than asleep, and the jolt of adrenalin kicking in with a cheery wakeup call had him blearily squinting at the corner of pillow that had migrated to covering his head overnight. It took effort, but he pushed himself up a little to look at the wall where the clock hung—he determined that lucky him, it was just after seven in the morning.

“Hnnnnagh,” Enjolras grumbled under a blanket, and squirmed some more so that he could shove his face into Grantaire’s armpit. Which was hilarious and Grantaire should take a picture of it, but his phone was on the other side of the bed and it seemed like too much work at the moment.

They didn’t have anything important to do today so far as Grantaire knew. Normally that would have been enough to have him rolling over and going back to sleep, but for whatever reason—maybe his steady decrease of alcohol intake—he actually felt rested for once; it was that irritating state where he could go back to sleep and wake up again later, but nowhere near as functional.

But—nothing to do today… There was an idea blooming. Grantaire ran through a list of possibilities. Courfeyrac had that thing about the new law about mandatory worker compensation that he’d been talking about and would probably want to discuss it. Eponine would have the latest information on Senator LeBlanc. Doubtless there would be a crisis as rumors exploded about another senator’s change of vote. But Grantaire also had an idea, and he knew how Enjolras got when Grantaire got _ideas_ but this was actually an awesome idea (or as awesome as he could come up with this early in the morning), and none of that other important Cause stuff would be an issue until after Enjolras got up. Which was never before eight in the morning anyway.

While Grantaire’s idea was stunningly perfect and he did not doubt that Enjolras would enjoy it, they still had occasional discussions about Grantaire’s consent where Enjolras still confused his enjoyment with Grantaire’s lack of permission. Keeping that in mind, Grantaire didn’t bother to be careful as he leaned over the mumbling Esteemed Leader and snagged the tube of lubricant from its spot on the small bedside table.

Enjolras grumbled as Grantaire made himself busy, reaching out for a body that wasn’t lying on the bed anymore and whining a bit when he didn’t find it. (Grantaire would never mention it to anyone, but he actually thought sleepy Enjolras was one of the best Enjolras.)

Enjolras whined some more; this time Grantaire thought he caught some words, like “doing” and “morning” and “augh,” but it was hard to tell.

“You are hilarious when you’re still asleep,” Grantaire said, scooting down the bed and pushing Enjolras flat as he went. “And also, we’re having morning sex.”

“Hrrg,” was the response, as Enjolras squinched his face up and pulled a pillow over his head, skin already pebbling in the cold. Grantaire took the briefest of seconds to uncap the lube and get some on his fingers before he leaned down and quietly slipped his mouth over Enjolras’s cock.

Enjolras, still half asleep, made a noise of appreciation. Grantaire fisted one hand around the base of his shaft and twisted roughly, idly wondering where this situation would fall on the scale of Enjolras’ ‘being awake in the morning,’ where he wasn’t 99% of the time and was for the one percent classified as balls-to-the-wall emergencies.

Enjolras shuddered, a loosely liquid motion, and groaned a little as his cock hardened quickly. Grantaire slid the two lubricated fingers home and started to stretch himself, ignoring the burn and enjoying the view. Maybe it was the morning—maybe it was seeing Enjolras enjoying himself—it didn’t actually matter, Grantaire was still finding his interest piqued more than he would have guessed, and the slow burn it manifested as was different enough from their usual frantic sex to be novel.

“Granta—” Enjolras sucked in a breath halfway through Grantaire’s name, stiffening as Grantaire swirled his tongue around the head. “Grantaire?” Motion rocked the mattress as he flailed his way into a more upright position. “Oh, god.”

Grantaire pulled off with a popping noise and noticed with great interest that Enjolras’s eyes crossed—definitely still not operating at full capacity. A new kink, Grantaire decided—sleepy and aroused Enjolras. Or maybe that is just being married.

“Good morning,” he purrs instead, and cheerfully notes that Enjolras’s eyes cross again. “We are having morning sex.”

Enjolras stares at him. Grantaire makes a show of stroking him, hard. Enjolras’s head tips back and his eyes flutter shut in appreciation before he has a chance to correct it, but he snaps back up when Grantaire goes back to using his mouth.

“Wait—Grantaire—” and Grantaire doesn’t even mind getting hauled off Enjolras’s cock, the look of Enjolras wide-eyed and a little hectic and clearly not firing on all systems due to sleep and sex is worth it— “ _wait_ —don’t do this for me—”

Grantaire pats Enjolras’s thigh comfortingly with his free hand. “I initiated,” he says solemnly, “and am very interested—” and he should try using that sort of growl again at another time if the way Enjolras’s eyes went dark was any sign—“so are you fine?”

Enjolras goggles. “What?” he manages. “I—of course—”

“Excellent,” Grantaire says firmly, and pulls his fingers out, tossing the lubrication off the bed. He gets into position readily, and the way he slides onto Enjorlas was a marvelous study in how Enjolras shudders and strains with an unusual lack of inhibition.

Grantaire rolls his hips slowly, sinking down, and leans in to lay a kiss on Enjolras’s bared throat as his husband makes a strangled noise and arches involuntarily. The stretch and burn is negligible and Grantaire likes the fullness; and besides, Enjolras is dazed and gaping and wordless underneath him and _Grantaire_ is causing that, and. The satisfaction goes exquisitely with the gradual build of this moment, and so do the muted jolts of pleasure he gets once he starts rocking in this position. Even better, Enjolras is _so_ beautiful with that look on his face, and brilliant, and gorgeous and a thousand other things, but mostly Grantaire’s; and Grantaire realizes halfway through who knows how many sinuous rolls later that he has sucked a bruise into the skin beneath Enjolras’s jaw while the bed rocks slightly and Enjolras pants and holds onto his hips tightly.

“Look at you,” Grantaire manages nonsensically, breathless, grinding down on the perfect angle. “Just look at _you._ ” It is Enjolras, and Enjolras being perfect and amazing and that perfect shining example of glory that had first attracted Grantaire’s adoration and even the knowledge that someone so magnificent is also so human as to be this stripped down—

Enjolras suddenly wraps an arm around him and tugs, and Grantaire goes toppling over. He is sprawled under Enjolras, who has pinned him to the mattress heavy and hard, and if Grantaire was interested before it is _nothing_ compared to now. Enjolras is awake, awake and in control and commanding—meeting Grantaire’s startled look with his own alert hunger as he grips Grantaire’s neglected cock tightly and twists harshly. Grantaire shouts and arches, surprised, as Enjolras thrusts in hard and the softer mood of the morning abruptly shifts into high drive.

“I can _not_ believe you,” Enjolras gasps out as he keeps up the new pace, something deliberately moderate that screams how his possession of Grantaire is so thorough not just in mind, but also body. That and his unerringly accurate aim has Grantaire writhing in seconds, and Grantaire supposes giddily that the amount of time Enjolras had put into learning Grantaire’s body would have endowed him with an intimate understanding that would overcome any and all handicaps, including just waking up.  “You and your—this has to be one of your _ideas_ —” Enjolras continues jaggedly, and Grantaire can’t help but laugh dizzily, he doesn’t even know why, and Enjolras shudders sharply and groans and slams in hard, stroking frantically so that Grantaire spills out hot and fast between them while Enjolras mouths sloppily at his collarbone.

They pant in the quiet for a moment, Enjolras draped all over Grantaire and face mashed to the side of his neck as Grantaire breathes hard and tries to compute the spirals his eyes keep insisting are right in front of him.

“We should try that again sometime,” he says dreamily after another minute.

Enjolras shifts, pulling out and tugging a pliant Grantaire into a snarl of limbs. “If you wake me up like that again you’ll give me a heart attack,” he says, but softens it with a press of lips to his forehead before tangling a hand into Grantaire’s hair and manhandling Grantaire’s head under Enjolras’s chin. “Your ideas always terrify me.”

“But you enjoyed it anyway,” Grantaire says, too full of well-being to take the chastisement seriously.

Enjolras groans. “Yes,” he agrees, and finds Grantaire’s hand to twine fingers. “But this doesn’t change the fact that I’m going back to sleep.”

Grantaire sighs and wriggles further into Enjolras’s hold. “You know,” he says muzzily, “one of these days you’ll actually be awake before eight without needing an emergency…”

“Unlikely,” Enjolras mumbles, and within minutes the only noise in the room is the faintest ticking of the clock as the arms march to a quarter ‘til eight and the shhhing of rain dripping from the eaves.


End file.
